


Queen of Hearts

by xcarex



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy, Panic At The Disco, Real Person Fiction
Genre: Alternate Universe - Music & Bands, Dreams, M/M, Serial Killers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-09-13
Updated: 2007-09-13
Packaged: 2017-11-07 12:49:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/431394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xcarex/pseuds/xcarex
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Me and Pete, in the wake of Saturday..."</p><p>Saturday!verse AU, world expanded.  Patrick is just a regular dude with a desk job, but all his friends keep getting murdered... and he can't stop dreaming about the guy who's (probably) doing it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Queen of Hearts

**Author's Note:**

> Watching the actual music video might help with the appreciation of this? Or it might not. AO3 doesn't allow embedding, so [click to watch it on YouTube](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UEzhlFqtAJk), if you wish.

Patrick Stump keeps waking up in a cold sweat, fragments of dreams—no, nightmares—lingering just out of reach. They're so frequent now that he rarely makes it through a whole night. He keeps dreaming about Polaroids, and a man. A dangerous-looking man that he's pretty sure he's never seen, nor met. He's not entirely sure what it all means, doesn't remember enough to piece together any kind of meaning, but it scares him. The man always wears an expression of detached self-righteousness.

Patrick wakes up every morning feeling curiously satisfied.

###

When Patrick decided to skip university and just take a few business classes at the local community college, he thought it would give him more time to focus on his music. He certainly never thought that a temp position, just a paycheque, would ever turn into him losing his mind in an office for three years, much less as a _supervisor_. 

He just didn't see himself as the kind of guy who shuffled papers around his desk from nine to five for a company that manufactured and distributed, of all things, novelty playing cards. Patrick didn't even like playing Go Fish when he was seven. Twenty-one years old, beginning to gain a little in the middle and lose a little on top, with a closet full of white collared shirts and subdued ties. He looked like any yuppie on the streets of Chicago, except he still feels that he looks like his mother had dressed him up for school picture day, every day.

This was his make-believe life, as far as he was concerned. His real life existed from 5pm on Friday afternoon to Monday morning, playing with his going-nowhere band. The more Patrick thought about his wasted youth, the more he wished he was brave enough to do something about it.

Then, he gets another paycheque. Patrick pays his rent, his bills, and fills the tank in his shitty Chevy whose gas disappears faster than it reasonably should, travelling back and forth between his office and his tiny basement apartment. Sparsely decorated, Patrick preferred instruments to furniture. No girlfriend, nobody to impress. His office at work is likewise devoid of any true element of his personality—a stress-ball, a coffee mug with the company logo, a cheap "Employee of the Month!" statuette. He could pick up and leave at any moment, no need to pack a box or make a dramatic exit. He could disappear.

Patrick, and his shitty life. Alone. For what it was worth.

###

He has the nightmare again. This time, he feels like he might know the smirking man with the golden skin, but just can't place him.

When Patrick thinks about it later, he isn't sure if it's just because he's been dreaming of him for so long, or if he actually exists. 

He felt too real not to be.

###

There's a problem with the new cards. Patrick arrives at work on Monday morning, and there are 51 in each box, plus the jokers, sealed in plastic and set to be shipped to game stores and casinos across the state. Each deck is missing the Queen of Hearts, but quality control insists that every card was present and accounted for when those decks were checked, rechecked, and then boxed up. 

Somehow, Patrick is responsible for this mess, this _fiasco_. Patrick fucking hates his job.

He finds himself feeling more exhausted than usual at work over the next week, time ticking by in his cluttered office. On Wednesday, he nods off a little around three-thirty, swears it was only for a second, but it's long enough to have seen that face, the man from the nightmares. 

Closer. He's becoming more real than ever.

When Patrick wakes from his accidental nap, he finds a Queen of Hearts on his desk. He guesses it's a not-so-subtle reminder from his boss, Mr. Saporta, to get his ass in gear resolving the missing card issue, but he has a really difficult time caring.

He throws the card across the room, and feels something in his chest loosen with his tiny act of rebellion. He leaves early that day.

###

When the rumours start to spread about the missing "punk" guys that weekend, and then rumour slides quickly into fact on Monday's six o'clock news, Patrick really only raises his eyebrows, takes note, and goes back to his Hungry Man dinner.

He didn't know any of the missing men, not by name, but he knew their type. Surely they were just locked in their own rooms, their own basement apartments, drinking heavily and working on some horrible metal-core number for next weekend's gig. Before he started working in the rat race full time, there would be days where nobody would see nor speak with Patrick; he'd just be holed up and working on music just the same, although typically without the alcohol binge. The melody flowed just as well, he was made for music, but drunkenly-penned lyrics aren't worth shit.

These guys are just artists, he thinks. The media is having a field day over the coincidence, a real molehill-to-mountain situation.

###

This time, Patrick sees more than his face. 

He doesn't know him, no, but he's familiar all the same, and it's disconcerting. The slant of his eyes, the tilt of his hips, the set of his jaw. He's not just threatening, he's _daring_.

When Patrick wakes up with a hard-on, he's almost embarrassed, and a little scared, but he still allows himself to try and recall the image of those dark eyes when he jerks off in the shower, desperate hands shaking, calming his nerves for another long day at his desk, at his life.

###

A reporter calls on Tuesday morning at 10:07am. One of the missing men had been found, and clenched in his teeth was a card, a Queen of Hearts, from their company. Patrick listens to the grisly details, or at least, what the so-called journalist excitedly embellishes. Facts were: no apparent injuries, the guy is just dead, card slipped between his lips. It isn't even a murder investigation, and they haven't performed the autopsy yet.

Just, dead.

Missing for three days and then found in an alleyway this morning, in the same clothes he was last seen wearing.

Did Patrick want to make a statement on behalf of the Chicago Card Company?

"Not especially, no." Why call him?

This intrepid reporter, this Mr. Walker, had seen Patrick's band play, made the connection to the company, thought maybe he'd known the victim. He names the dead guy, then his band, and then pauses for effect.

Oh. This is evidently the moment where the news is supposed to hit home, or Patrick is maybe supposed to fear for his own life. Truth is, he'd heard of the band, seen them play a few times. Not bad, but Patrick was never a big fan of the whole scream-until-you're-hoarse style of "singing." And he wasn't especially well connected to the so-called scene that he'd instantly recognized the names when he'd heard the missing persons report the night before. But this reporter sounds young, and his voice is friendly. Unusually warm, despite the subject matter.

The Queen of Hearts. The thorn in Patrick's side. "I can't comment on behalf of the company at this time." Patrick gives a reluctant sigh. He'd probably have to tell someone about this. "We're not prepared to make a statement on anything else" (because this is the first I'm hearing of it.)

"But what about you, Mr. Stump? Are you willing to comment on your own behalf, as a member of the local music scene?" This reporter, if all else fails, is persistent.

"I... no," Patrick speaks haltingly, flattered that this guy had known his name, had seen his band, had called his extension intentionally—but the music world was left behind each Monday in favour of this desk, this job and an administrative assistant to whom he rarely spoke. "I didn't really know the guy. I hope they find out who did it, though."

"So, you think it was a homicide?"

"I only know what you've told me about it, Mr. Walker."

"It's Jon, please."

"I—okay, Jon. I guess we'll find out, after the autopsy, right?"

"Then, or if it happens again. There are still at least two guys missing. Well, there are certainly more than two people missing in all of Chicago, but two musicians who knew each other. It's weird."

"Yeah, weird." Patrick feels uneasy. He likes this young reporter, but he feels himself slipping too quickly into casual conversation. He was called for a reason, the damned Queen of Hearts. He'll need to figure some shit out before things get even more difficult. "Jon? Listen, I'm going to have to cut this short."

"Oh." He sounds genuinely disappointed. Patrick feels an odd sense of accomplishment.

"It's just—I'm at work. I've got... work." Ugh. Listen to Mr. Smooth.

"Oh, yeah, of course. I'm sorry if I held you up..."

"No!" Patrick almost yelps into the receiver. "Please, call me when you learn more, especially about the cards, if it shows up again. I'd, well, I'd really appreciate it."

###

That afternoon, Patrick goes to the warehouse where the cards are boxed up and starts asking questions. Most of the warehouse guys are his age, or maybe a few years older, and they're certainly all bigger and tougher. They don't like to be blamed for doing a shitty job, much less by a balding pipsqueak like Patrick.

"Sometimes," came the casual response, "things fall off the truck." 

"But, it's not a case of cards that's missing! Just one card, one from each deck."

Charlie, the surliest of the workmen, but apparently the most reasonable, stares Patrick down. "What are you suggesting, kid?"

"Just... it seems like it would have to have happened on the inside. On purpose."

Wrong choice of words. "You think my men would fuck this up intentionally? You know how much more work we've gotta do to make up for those damned missing cards? They don't wanna give us overtime pay, neither. We don't need some high school kid in a suit comin' around and telling us we fucked up when it ain't us." And then Charlie spit on the floor. Indoors. Patrick backed up a pace.

"So, who do you think might be responsible?"

"Who the fuck are you, Nancy Drew? There's no mystery here. The cards, they've just gotten lost. Something must've gone wrong in the printer, whatever, maybe they didn't get made. It ain't our fault." Charlie cracks his knuckles to punctuate his sentence. It would almost seem cartoonish to Patrick if he weren't too busy fearing for his teeth, his nose, his bones.

Patrick writes a report of his findings for his boss as soon as he returns to the office, but he leaves out the part where he scurried back to his car like a frightened chipmunk.

The boss, Mr. Saporta, doesn't care. He just wants those cards back, dammit, and if Patrick doesn't find them, he'll be held personally responsible.

Patrick forces himself harder into the seat, grips the arm-rests so that he doesn't try to climb over the desk and throttle Saporta for asking him to solve the fucking _impossible_. He even surprises himself when he realizes his quick temper, his urges towards violence, came from nowhere but felt so very right.

###

The dreams that night are less linear than usual, his sub-consciousness dipping in and out. Patrick dreams about soft-voiced reporters and burly, spitting men... but still, there _he_ is, more Polaroids on the wall, and he looks even more pleased with himself than usual, if that's even possible.

###

Patrick meets Jon for coffee on Thursday, deciding that he would feel more comfortable with this whole thing if he knew more about the guy. Jon doesn't dress up for the occasion, and Patrick loosens his tie knot, feeling more uncomfortable in his work clothes than usual. Nevertheless, somehow hearing the morbid details from a scruffy guy in flip-flops makes the news easier to take (another death, no marks or wounds, another Queen of Hearts). Patrick begs him not to mention the cards in his article.

Even as he says it, it doesn't make sense. He doesn't care about the company that much, he could easily find another job with his curriculum vitae. It might even lead to a clue for him, something that would solve the damned card problem once and for all, and then he wouldn't have to worry about them. Let the police handle it, out of his hands, he can go back to his computer and his paperwork, his easy and painfully bureaucratic workaday life. 

Patrick doesn't understand why he feels so strongly about it and he certainly can't account for the feeling of full-bodied relief when Jon begrudgingly agrees. It's not like he's the only person covering the story, and certainly others might pick up on the connection, but that slow, easy "alright" across the tiny café table assuaged whatever inexplicable fear Patrick might've had.

"Listen, Patrick," formalities gone, no more Mr. Stump, "there's something else I need to ask you, before the police get involved." Jon pauses, and the fear came creeping back in. "When was the last time you had band practice?"

"Sunday afternoon."

"And... was that the last time you saw or spoke to your band mates, Andrew Hurley and Joe Trohman?"

Patrick's heart drops into his stomach. A weak "Why?" was all he could manage, although he felt certain he already knew the answer.

"They've both been reported missing as of this morning. Hasn't anyone, family, mutual friends, tried to contact you about them?"

Patrick thinks back to the phone ringing late last night, but he'd ignored it. He goes to bed at eleven every weeknight, and with the nightmares still waking him up intermittently throughout the night, he needs all the rest he can get. He always ignores the phone after he's gone to bed. "I haven't checked my voicemails yet this morning. Someone called me last night, but I was in bed so I didn't pick up." Shit shit shit. "Are you sure they're missing? Do you... do you think it's related?" 

Of course he does.

"Yeah, Patrick, I do." Jon takes a long drink from his coffee, two creams three sugars. "Look, the cops will probably call you soon, asking if you've seen either of them." Maybe they were on their way right then, to his office. The office he's presently taking an unannounced extended lunch break from. Saporta won't like the looks of that. "If you hear from either guy, the police, they'll want to know right away, but... listen, Patrick, I'll be honest with you. I need a scoop on this. It's hard to make a living, doing this freelance stuff, and if I can stay on top of this story, well, maybe I can get a steady position at a paper somewhere."

Patrick understands Jon's desperation. He knew what it was to want to pursue a dream, but have certain obstacles in your way. "How can I help?"

"I can do my best to keep the connection to your company out of the news, but if you hear from either of them, can you call me first, before you contact the police?"

On this, Patrick isn't sure; he feels like the police probably know what they were doing. But then, two men had already died, and they obviously hadn't done much to stop it. Jon looks like he honestly cares. And... Joe. Andy. Shit. "Yeah, okay. I can do that."

Once he gets back to his office, Patrick doesn't have to wait too long for the police to call. 

Just as Jon had said, they questioned him on when he'd last seen Joe and Andy, and his answers didn't (couldn't) change. Neither of them had called, this was a busy week at work for Patrick (he doesn't mention the Queen of Hearts, if they're real detectives they wouldn't need him to supply that piece of information) and they were his friends, they could tell when he was stressed, when he needed to focus. So there were no movie invites, no shows to check out mid-week, no new songs to work out.

But Joe's girlfriend hadn't seen nor heard from him in two days, not since he left for work on Tuesday morning. Andy's roommate had a similar story to tell, except that he hadn't really noticed Andy hadn't been home (he was quiet, frequently holed himself up in his room with books) until Joe's girlfriend called looking for Joe the night before. And _nobody_ had heard from Patrick.

###

He isn't certain exactly when he stops being afraid of the things he sees in his dreams. Patrick doesn't even correct himself, call them nightmares anymore, even though it's becoming increasingly apparent that the photographs taped to the wall are of dead bodies. He can't see their faces, but Patrick knows.

Patrick also can't help but feel extremely uncomfortable with the simple fact that the sweat he wakes up drenched in is no longer from fear. He's still nervous, doesn't understand why these dreams continue, but he also stops questioning why he now wakes up tenting the sheets, thoughts lingering. He's jolted awake, short of breath, sticky and ... oh. Oh, _great_. It's been a good six or seven years since Patrick's had an honest-to-goodness wet dream, and this one wasn't even about Natalie Portman in full Queen Amidala make up. Patrick would've probably been _fine_ with that.

No, this was definitely about him. That smirking, dark-haired, gorgeous... jerk. Patrick instinctively didn't like him, and yet, two o'clock in the morning, and he's got to haul his sleepy ass out of bed to change his sheets and his boxers.

Patrick lies motionless for a moment, however, still feeling the aftershocks, still catching his breath. The smallest of snippets come back to him, kissing this guy, seeing it all from the third perspective like a movie. Like a photograph. Kissing him, touching, grinding up against him. As the pieces of memory fade from Patrick's mind, as the insides of his eyelids go dark, he remembers one unusual detail—they were dressed alike. Exactly alike. Same shirt, same tie, same everything.

Patrick sits up in bed, perturbed. He realizes with a start that this man was _always_ dressed just as Patrick is, in every dream. And while, sure, they're just dreams, and dreams are where fucked up things happen, Patrick can't quite grasp why his own sub-consciousness would force his drab workaday wardrobe on a hauntingly-attractive dream dude. He was already everything Patrick wasn't—handsome face, strong jaw... god, Patrick found himself feeling warm again, thinking of that tanned skin. He had those bright, straight teeth, those swirling tattoos peeking out from the cuff of his shirtsleeve, dark eyes (no glasses necessary), an enviably flat stomach and charisma and confidence oozing out of every pore. He was impossible. This was all too strange, and as Patrick pulls the damp sheet from his bed and stuffs it into the hamper, he decides he won't allow himself to tolerate these dreams anymore.

He still isn't too keen on the pictures of dead bodies taped to the walls, either.

###

It's 9:48am on Friday morning when Patrick's cell phone vibrates. He doesn't usually answer it when he's at work, but he looks at the caller ID all the same and: it's Joe! It's Joe! It's Joe!

"Patrick! Please." He's shouting. "I'm—I don't know what's going on." There's a lot of static on the line, poor reception, bad signal. "I need you to..." He's out of breath, sounds like he's been running. "His name is Pete." Or being chased.

"Who?" No, seriously, _who_?!

"I'm supposed to—he told me to tell you, Patrick. I don't understand! He said you'd know."

Patrick is the very dictionary definition of alarmed, and yet he retains some small sense of composure: "Joe, where are you?" 

"I don't have much time." Gasping for air, loud noises around him, one sounded like a train. "Please, Patrick, call the cops! He's crazy! He'll find me soon." More static.

"Where?" Patrick is standing now, pacing around his small office, trying fruitlessly to get better service. Fucking cell phones.

"I have to go. Please. I'm near—" the street names were unfamiliar, and almost drowned out by the _noise_. Trains, definitely trains. Through the static, "Please!" and the call ended.

Patrick turns to his computer instantly, and types in what he hopes is the correct intersection into MapQuest. Only twenty minutes away, barring significant traffic, towards the industrial side of the city. 

He doesn't even stop to tell his secretary that he's leaving, he just runs through the halls, heading for his car. Remembering their deal, Patrick dials Jon's number at the first red light, leaves a message on the voicemail, starting to panic. He barks the address into the phone then hangs up, throws the phone across the seat. Patrick does not call 911 or the detective "working" on the case. He just needs to focus, focus on finding Joe before... Pete, he'd said... before this Pete did something to harm Patrick's closest thing to a best friend.

Joe didn't mention Andy. Maybe—maybe he didn't know. Maybe they were taken separately. Or maybe Joe knows something, but couldn't say. Maybe Andy is safe.

Or maybe it's already too late.

Patrick speeds through the next three yellows, he can't afford the wait.

###

Several dead-ends and back alleys later, each one smelling more of hot wet garbage and urine than the last, Patrick finds Joe lying uncomfortably across scrap metal and planks of wood, his head resting against the base of a pillar holding up the train tracks crossing above. Joe isn't moving. 

Patrick approaches Joe's body with caution. He isn't bleeding, but nobody would choose this place to lie down for a nap, not after calling Patrick and sounding so frightened. Joe still might be injured, he shouldn't move his body. But then Patrick finds something else he was looking for: a Queen of Hearts.

Joe is dead.

Patrick was too late.

"Fuck!" He threw the damning card down in anger, anguish. Patrick didn't know what else he could have done. This... this didn't make any sense! He kicked at some garbage, a few stray blocks of wood, trying to get his frustrations out so that he could then calmly think this through. Why him? Why _Joe_?

Cursing and kicking, and a train passing overhead, Patrick doesn't hear the sirens approaching.

###

The police don't arrest Patrick, but he's at the scene of the crime before they are, and he knows the victim. 

He's taken downtown for questioning immediately. 

Patrick doesn't have a lawyer, and he doesn't want to call Mr. Saporta to see if the company could provide him with one, so he calls Jon Walker again instead. Jon answers on the third ring. "Hello?"

"Jon, it's me!" His voice almost squeaks. He's never been involved with the police before, in any capacity. "It's Patrick!" 

"Patrick, I got your message, I came down here as soon as I could." Jon's voice was calm, it almost helped. "Where are you? What number are you calling from?"

"I'm down at the police station. They think I had something to do with this." 

The whistle of a train comes over the line, muffled. Jon was too late, but he was ‘at the scene'. "I just talked to the guy they left guarding the area, and he wouldn't tell me much. Joe?"

Patrick felt something in his chest clench. "He's dead. I found him." 

"God, Patrick, I'm sorry."

"What do I do? I don't know what to tell them. Andy is still missing, too."

"Just tell them the truth, Patrick. Tell them that Joe called you, it'll be in your phone's recent call history, and you ran down there without thinking about the consequences. You were worried about your friend."

"They'll see that I called you, Jon."

"We're friends, too, Patrick." Jon's voice has a distinct _take-the-hint_ tone to it, and Patrick can only just make out the sound of an engine turning over. He's in his car. "You called because we're friends, not because of my job."

"Right. Yeah." Patrick pauses, uncertain. "Can you come down here?" He gives Jon the precinct number and address. 

"I'm already on my way."

###

Patrick doesn't have an alibi for Monday or Wednesday nights, when the first two men were killed. Patrick wishes his cat could talk, wishes harder that he had a roommate or girlfriend (fuck it, who's he kidding, _boyfriend_ ) that he spent time with regularly. At least he has the call from Joe on his phone records to show them, and that does him some good, and his secretary confirms that he was in the office that morning and left in a mad tear.

All in all, things aren't looking great. That is, until early in the evening, when an anonymous 911 call comes from a payphone about a suspicious-looking vehicle. 

A couple of officers already in the area go and check it out, apparently lacking anything more productive to do but talk about the Cubs and drink stale coffee. Andy's body is found in the trunk of said abandoned car, in a parking lot an hour clear across town from where Joe was discovered. 

The license plates are run through the system, and the car had been reported stolen two weeks ago. It's the same make and year as Patrick's own shitty car, but painted blue instead of white.

They place the time of death at one or two in the afternoon, hours after Patrick had already been brought in to the station and it's confirmed by an officer over the radio that Patrick's own car is still parked in the alley.

Jon's been waiting not-so-patiently in the lobby for hours when Patrick is finally released. The elderly woman at the front desk is more than ready to get Jon out of her grey hair, but is surprisingly sympathetic when Patrick walks out. She watches Jon stand up hastily, hug him, and squeeze his fingers. "They'll catch him, dear," she says, interrupting what might quickly have become a _moment_. Patrick turns to the desk to look at her. "My grandson is into this rock n' roller music, but luckily he's safe at college." Patrick gives her a weak smile. Two of his best friends are dead. "Stay safe out there, boys."

"Thanks." Patrick's voice is rough; he's explained himself a hundred times today. "We'll try."

They eat supper at Taco Bell and Patrick feels Jon's foot slip out of its flip-flop and brush against his ankle. It's warm. It's reassuring.

Jon drives Patrick back out to get his car. Patrick doesn't invite Jon back to his place, although he wants to. He doesn't want to be alone anymore.

###

It takes Patrick hours to get to sleep that night, crying piteously over Joe, and Andy, and his inability to change the things that have happened. He hasn't cried in years, but not because it's unmanly to do so—his life simply hasn't been that interesting or dramatic. He'd been mostly fine with that.

By time he reaches the point of exhaustion, the dream has shifted radically from its usual format. The guy, he speaks. More than that, he makes proclamations:

"You need a change in your life, Patrick. Take a chance."

 _Too much is happening, too much is changing_ , Patrick thinks, and realizes he's still lucid. _My best friends are dead_.

"You want to change things. You aren't living the life you're supposed to." That ever-present oh-so-confident smirk. "You've never really lived."

_If I change things, will I stop dreaming about you?_

"Don't worry, gorgeous. I'm already changing them for you. Just, like, lie back." The dream starts looking more familiar, Patrick feels his warm hands, just there, and just that quickly, they're falling into old patterns. "Let me do all the work." 

Patrick isn't ready to stop talking, tries to hold on. _Who are you?_

"Who else would I be in these awful clothes?" The man pulls off his tie, begins unbuttoning his work shirt. Tanned skin and black ink. "Come on, Patrick. For fucksakes, I'm part of you. I've been here all along."

Patrick feels himself melting away, the dream is taking over.

"It'll all be over soon."

###

Patrick wakes up at five the next morning, Saturday, as Jon's already calling him on the phone. "Your boss, did he have any connection to music?"

"Mr. Saporta?" Patrick blinks, he slept better than he has in weeks. "Wait, Jon?"

"Yeah, of course it's me. Look, he didn't come home from work last night, his family reported him missing. Usually it takes 24 hours before someone can be declared missing, officially, but under these circumstances, the police aren't taking any extra chances." 

Patrick sits up slowly, sluggishly. He could still use a few more hours, but he'd better get up and feed the cat. "How... how do you know? Why are you always the first to know these things?"

"Come on, Patrick, I can't reveal my sources." Jon honestly sounds insulted, but Patrick feels for the first time like Jon is keeping something from him. He does his best to shrug it off. "It's unprofessional. But... yeah." 

"Fine, fine. But, I honestly don't know much about his life outside of work, Jon. I wish I could help. But I don't think he's musically inclined, no, and I've never heard him talk about any band. We'd get along better than we do if he were a musician, I'm sure."

"So you don't have a good relationship with him? Did other people in the office get on well with him, or would you stand out?"

Patrick freezes. It sounds like an accusation, however casual Jon's tone of voice. "What are you trying to say?"

"Nothing more than the police might ask."

The police. Fucking hell. Andy, Joe. Patrick feels the chill coming back on, the lump in his throat. In his sleepy state, he'd almost forgotten.

"Jon, I can't talk about this with you right now." He can barely choke out the words, everything feels tight. He's disgusted with himself, having almost allowed himself to forget the previous day's events. "Can you..." Patrick runs a self-conscious hand through his thinning ginger hair. "Uh, would you like to come over?"

"Patrick, the sun is barely up." That wasn't a ‘no.'

"What does that matter? Have you even gone to bed yet?"

Jon pauses, stifles a yawn. "Shit, it's earlier than I thought. No, I haven't."

"Come over, already."

"Yeah. Yeah, okay."

###

Monday. 

Patrick feels more secure in his suit and tie, wears it like his armour. A protective shell. It still doesn't feel _right_ , but the job is the only thing he really knows. And yet, on the drive to work, he feels uneasy, like he's being watched. When he checks the rear-view mirror, he's almost certain that he sees someone else in the car. His heart skips a beat, and Patrick looks again. He's alone, but the sick feeling doesn't leave him for several hours.

He'll be leaving mid-afternoon to go to Joe's funeral. Andy's body is being taken back to Milwaukee, and Patrick would drive up for that funeral after work the next day. Open casket; there are no marks of any kind on either of the bodies. As far as he'd heard, the results of the preliminary autopsies reveal nothing, but Patrick hopes that the pathologists merely missed something, that there would be some clue, some _definitive_ answer behind their deaths.

Besides, the terrifying thought that perhaps the man in his dreams was real, and maybe killing his friends, is (of course) ridiculous.

Patrick also tries very hard not to think about Jon, and how great he's been, how comforting. He's obviously still working on this case, this story, but he was _there_ for Patrick this weekend, and it shocked Patrick how easily they fell into step. How fucked up the circumstances had to be to bring them together! Patrick feels like a magnet for danger and death and he'd like very much not to get too close to Jon, so he won't be dragged any further into this mess than he already is, but even as Patrick thinks it, he knows it'll be impossible.

He tries even harder not to think about the things he's being told in his dreams, as the fervency frightens him. Quit his job, start a new band or just perform on his own, do everything he's ever wanted to do: it'll all work out fine. Patrick isn't ready for it, but every night, the man gets more insistent. 

Arriving at the office to learn that Mr. Saporta is still missing, Patrick begins to worry. Jon was right, he'd been gone since Friday afternoon. Many of his co-workers seem to be genuinely concerned for their boss' safety, and while Patrick doesn't wish him any harm, he also just wishes that they'd find out one way or another. Patrick still isn't certain that the police have made the connection between the missing cards, the cards found at each death, and Patrick himself. They may not even know the cards were missing, as they've never been reported as stolen. What criminal would steal individual, essentially worthless playing cards? 

Patrick sits heavily in his desk chair, booting up his weary computer, and decides that perhaps what he needs more than Mr. Saporta to be alive is a few answers. He isn't a detective, but he could at least review what he already knew about when the cards went missing, and maybe determine what the police might discover that he'd missed. The best offence is a good defence, right? Or was it the other way around?

Quitting this job might be more difficult than Patrick had thought.

Two cups of bad coffee and three hours later, there's a break in the case, as one might say: between the begrudging statements he'd received from the warehouse workers and the especially indignant report from quality control, and hastily filled-in forms from the factory line, Patrick is able to determine when the cards must have disappeared ( _stolen,_ he corrects himself) within a span of just a few hours.

Patrick quickly makes a call to the factory, asks for the building's security from the surprisingly polite young woman operating the switchboard. He's transferred to another line, which leads to voicemail. Patrick leaves a message, explaining who he is, and that he would very much be interested in examining their security camera footage from that particular night as soon as the next morning if possible, please and thank you, and leaves both his office and cell numbers. 

It's after lunch when the call is returned. Patrick skipped his break to close his eyes for a moment, and is startled awake by the sudden noise of the phone. He doesn't remember falling asleep, but he knows he had another dream.

"Mr. Stump?" The voice is terse, impatient. "This is Mr. Gutierrez, from the warehouse. You were calling about the security tapes?"

"Yes, I need to see them right away. When--"

He's interrupted. "I'm leaving work shortly for a funeral. It'll have to be tomorrow."

Patrick frowns, doesn't want to ask _whose_. "I... same here." There is an awkward pause. "Tomorrow morning, then."

###

Most of the tapes are a bust. Hours upon hours of footage of _boxes_ , and if it weren't for the clock's hands moving and an occasional flicker in the lighting, Patrick would be convinced that the VCR was stuck on pause. The Box Show, starring Boxy McBoxerson. But briefly in the corner of the room, there are two figures, and the image only lasts for a couple of seconds before the scene returns to rows and rows of boxes. Just there! Something! A flash of lights and movement, and Patrick has to rewind and creepy ahead slowly, just to determine whether he really saw anything at all.

His jaw drops, and he's thankful Chris, the security guard, left to use the men's room.

Just for a moment, just for a few frames, clear as day: the man from his dreams, captured on videotape. And beside him, inexplicably blurrier, is Patrick himself.

He immediately ejects the tape, pops it into his briefcase, and stands up. Patrick neatly stacks the other tapes he's already perused, then leaves quietly before the guard returns.

###

It's Friday morning and Patrick hasn't heard from Jon in four days. He squashes down any feeling of rejection, that post we-slept-together-and-now-he's-avoiding-me dismissal, and Patrick tells himself that any man would be intimidated by the unusually dramatic situation they've found themselves in, but he'd also thought that Jon understood what was happening, maybe more than Patrick did, and so he really, _really_ wanted to show Jon the stolen security tape.

He almost goes as far as to call the police, submit a missing person report, that Patrick realizes he doesn't know where Jon lives, or any of his friends, or even which newspaper Jon has been submitting stories to. Patrick had assumed the Tribune, but he hadn't even picked up a copy, his head already too full of worries and scattered facts about these killings. He couldn't go to the police.

And now Jon wasn't picking up, or returning any of Patrick's calls.

Patrick isn't any closer to solving the mystery of what happened to the cards, because from what he's learned, the cards vanished into thin air that night, and he was fucking _there_ for it. And all Patrick wants to do is give up, forget it, and throw in the towel. 

People come and go all week, speaking in hushed tones, and by Friday the office is nearly empty, everyone increasingly anxious about Mr. Saporta's sudden disappearance. The police haven't found any trace of him, and Patrick isn't certain whether to be relieved or worried. Nobody notices what Patrick does from day to day. The staff under him works on auto-pilot and his assistant spends most of her time in the break-room with the other secretaries, if she even bothered to come in at all. 

Patrick decides to go home early, and is already driving through busy mid-afternoon traffic when his cell rings. He quickly puts it on speaker-phone and changes lanes. "Hello?"

"I'm so glad you answered. It's me, Jon." 

Unsure of how to react, Patrick tries to choose his words carefully. "Hey. I've been trying to reach you."

"Sorry, I need to make this quick while I've got a signal, it took me a few minutes to find one. I don't know if I'll get another chance. I don't even know if this is really you I'm talking to, or if you're Pete."

"What the fuck?" Patrick cuts across another lane and pulls haphazardly into a Blockbuster parking lot. "Jon, what did you just say?"

"Dude, I know this is crazy but you've got to hear me out. I thought I was with you this week. When you came over on Tuesday night, I thought you were just upset over the stuff that's going on, but then you were asleep for so long... I just let you sleep, got up and made a sandwich, and then you were gone. You vanished, the door didn't open. But someone else was in the apartment. He comes out wearing your clothes and I fucking flip out, and he's all confused and then _he_ panics, and then next thing I know I wake up and I'm fucking locked in a trunk."

"You're _where_??!" Patrick thinks immediately of Andy, of where they found his body, and of the similar call he'd gotten from Joe hours before that. "Jon, you said ‘Pete'. That's... that's who Joe said was after him."

"I know, and I don't know where he is now, but the thing that woke me up was him slamming the trunk down and swearing to himself about cards and—" a beep, Jon's cell battery is dying "—and _you_. He said you had them."

"Jon, okay, I haven't seen you since Sunday. We talked on Monday night for awhile, and that's it."

"Trust me; I know that wasn't you in my place, not really. I just don't know how he did it." Jon falls silent for a moment.

"What is it?"

"I thought I heard something. I should save my battery," as if on cue, it beeps warningly again, "I don't know how long I'll be in here. Call the police, Patrick. Tell them to look for me." Jon's voice drops a little. "What about the cards?"

Patrick squints into the cloudy afternoon light, not sure what he's looking for. "Excuse me?"

"The cards! Do you have them? I thought that's what he was saying."

"No, I... wait." A red box of Bicycle cards is suddenly sitting on the passenger seat. He hadn't noticed it before. Granted, they aren't his company's cards, but maybe other card companies were keeping the same missing Queen of Hearts secret. The box is empty.

"Patrick?" Jon's voice comes over the speaker-phone, tinny and far away. 

"Just hold on... there's something..." Patrick throws down the empty box and reaches for the knob on the glove compartment. He isn't sure why, but a voice in his mind is urging him on.

Several dozen Queen of Hearts spill out of the glove box and cascade onto the floor. 

" _What..._?!" Patrick shouts, horrified. "Jon, you were right! The cards are fucking here!"

Silence on the line. Jon's battery might've died, or he'd otherwise lost the signal, Patrick isn't sure. He slams his fist on the dash in frustration, and regrets it milliseconds later as tears spring to his eyes from the pain shooting up his wrist. It hurts twice as much as it reasonably should, and he shouts out loud.

He needs to call the police, but he's afraid to call from his cell, in case Jon tries to reach him again. Patrick drives to the station where they questioned him, with the sweet older lady that had to deal with Jon all that afternoon. Someone who would remember them being together, remember that he and Jon knew each other, cared for one-another. Someone who would believe Patrick when he said that he wasn't the one responsible.

###

Patrick tosses and turns in his bed that night, worrying for Jon's safety and afraid to fall asleep.

He can't control it.

He can't control Pete.

Eventually dreams take over, but everything is different. He's slipping back and forth, images cut together.

First he's back in the white-walled room, a familiar scene, with the Polaroids. He doesn't see Jon, but then, he can't see anything. The image changes again, flickering. It's Pete, then it's _him_ , then Pete again, flashing before his eyes. Maybe Jon was right about Pete. Is it possible that he somehow transformed, took his face (but not his glasses), and fooled Jon into thinking he was the real thing?

Next he's in a basement, there's a band playing, it's _his_ band, except Pete is there, too. Patrick even finds himself singing about Pete, and he can't stop himself from forming the words. The white shirt and black tie he wears morphs into black and white stripes. He's temporarily lost in the sound of the music, the joy of performing with Andy and Joe again. 

He can feel Pete's hot energy bouncing off him, something he'd felt in other, different dreams. People spinning around them, dudes screaming the words along with him. He recognizes faces, some are the kids who had been killed, some are the dudes from the warehouse, even the security guard. The feeling of reckless abandonment surrounds Patrick, and everyone in the low-ceilinged, dilapidated room is feeding off of their energy, Pete's energy. They never had this before, not even at their best show. He wants this; he doesn't care how it happens.

Patrick can't believe how good it feels to sing with his heart wide open.

Then, suddenly, he's standing in an alley beside a dumpster, watching him, Pete, speak on a cell phone. A train passes overhead. Patrick's hand is throbbing. He doesn't see a car anywhere. No Jon.

But he recognizes the alley. It's behind his mother-fucking office.

For the first time in a long time, Patrick feels inspired, confident, in control. He knows what to do next.

###

Saturday.

The police still haven't found Jon, and Patrick wakes fearing for the worst. He barely thinks about anything else as he gets dressed, only realizing moments before he steps outside that he's wearing the same thing he wears to work every day.

His uniform, his armour.

It's fitting, since that's where he's going. Well, almost. 

Patrick tucks the deck of cards inside his jacket pocket along with an envelope. He's going to drop the cards on-top of Mr. Saporta's growing incoming papers stack with the letter of resignation he'd typed up that morning (all while humming the song he sang in the dream), and leave. 

Then he actually does it.

Patrick walks around to the rear of the building, and into the familiar alley-way. He knows he's supposed to be here. There's that voice in his head again, and then he spots the dumpster. There's the cell phone, and, fucking hell, another card. This one was waiting for him out in the open. Patrick reaches for the phone and lifts it to his ear, but the voice he thinks he hears shouting on the other line is in stereo. It's actually coming closer. 

It's Pete. He's fucking coming for him.

This is it. Patrick does his best to hold is ground, and as he spins to face Pete, he slips the phone and the card into his suit-jacket pocket. 

Pete marches toward him down the alley, and Patrick should be afraid and certainly he appears afraid, but he knows can do this. This is the day he changes his life around. Pete cocks his arm and fires a gun, but Patrick doesn't see it happen. He only sees his frustration, another obstacle keeping him stuck here. Pete can't hurt him, not really. The only thing that can hurt Patrick now is staying here, at this job, in this shitty life. 

Patrick wants what he saw in the dream. He wants a band and he wants it every day. He can't have Joe or Andy back, not after this, but he wants Jon to still be alive and maybe he'll play bass.

Most of all, he wants smug, obnoxious, happy-go-fucking-lucky Pete to know the crushing life of a meaningless office job.

He wants them to switch places.

And then suddenly Pete's wearing his jacket. The jacket with the card in the pocket. The Queen of Hearts. The ticket to Patrick's frustration.

It feels immediately like an enormous weight has been lifted, and Patrick stands easily. Pete has taken his place, lying on the ground, and he isn't moving. Patrick knows he should wait and see what happens, but he doesn't have to. Pete's form goes blurry, like a picture out of focus, and then he simply isn't there any more.

Street sounds seem to beckon him, and Patrick loosens his tie as he walks toward his car parked at the end of the alley.

It isn't something he can wrap his head around right away. He doesn't know who Pete really was, or why so many people had to die. Patrick isn't even sure how many people Pete killed. But the cards, those were a clue for him. After seeing that security footage, Pete and a ghostly image of himself from a time of night when he was most certainly sleeping, Patrick figures that it wasn't all random. Some part of him had a hand in taking those cards, and throwing himself into all of this. Besides, the cards brought him Jon.

The dreams were another story altogether. Maybe Pete wasn't always there, much less really a part of him. Maybe Pete didn't even actually exist. But certainly the things Patrick was shown in his dreams reminded him that there's more to the world than his average buttoned-down day-to-day. He wasn't really living, and yet Pete saved his life.

He reaches his car, and pulls out his keys. There's still a voice in his head, guiding him, and he doesn't know if it's Pete, or something else, but the confidence returns. He stands a little straighter.

Patrick's going to find Jon; he's going to solve everything, it will all be over soon. 

It needs to be. It's Saturday.

**Author's Note:**

> See original comments [here](http://underyourhat.livejournal.com/2966.html).


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